Alternative medicine
by pfangirl
Summary: Post-Yamatai, Lara and Sam develop an unconventional and unexpected strategy to cope with their post-traumatic stress. Unrelated to Can't Go Home and Easier to Run, this once-off story is intended as an experiment in writing Lara-Sam as close to canon as possible, at a point where psychological and physical desires collide. A planned 4-parter.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Every night was the same sick game of roulette – the wheel alternating black and red in shades the same colour as charred bone and blood respectively. She never knew what form the nightmares would take; simply that she would have one every time she closed her eyes. And there was nothing she could do to guard against them.

They were always so vivid.

The smoke and sea air stinging her nostrils.

The motion of her limbs slowed as if she was wading chest deep in blood.

The unpredictably shifting weight in her skull – a solid lump of vertigo – as she climbed higher and higher on that bloody radio tower.

Finally, the way her gut was ripped from her as the rusted rung snapped off in her palm, and she plummeted…

* * *

She'd inevitably wake, heart racing, and completely disorientated.

It helped to sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes. Head in her hands, she'd hiss "Shit. Shit, shit, shit…" until her pulse rate returned to normal, and the rivulets of sweat trickling over her flesh had reached their destination.

By then she'd realise she was too uncomfortable to go back to sleep with her shirt glued to her stomach and that frustratingly unreachable spot between her shoulder blades.

So she'd tug the fabric over her head and use it to dab up the worst of the stickiness. Then she'd rummage in her chest of drawers for a fresh top.

* * *

Standing there naked from the waist up, she caught sight of her body in the bedroom mirror. The first thing she noticed was how lean and hard she looked. She'd largely lost her appetite since the island, and the softness of a fresh-faced university graduate had melted away. She was muscle, sharp bone and sinew – practically feral. At least the scabs and bruises were all gone. Finally. The scars were still fresh, though. Livid pink. Impossible to ignore.

Her Yamatai souvenirs.

She scowled at that realisation.

As if she needed to carry a reminder around with her every day – one literally branded into her flesh. It wasn't like she could forget.

* * *

In the kitchen she made herself a cup of tea, trying to ignore the residual tremor in her hands. While the kettle boiled she took several slugs of tap water in an attempt to cool, calm and rehydrate her. It was all part of her post-nightmare routine these days.

In some ways it helped. In others, it didn't.

Her body recovered pretty quickly from the terrors. Her mind, though, felt like freshly manhandled scar tissue. She wanted to writhe and yell and throw things at the discomfort. But it was 3am, and she wouldn't subject her neighbours to nocturnal tantrums.

Instead, seated at the kitchen table, she brooded.

She stared deep into her mug and for a second the liquid looked exactly like blood.

Was blood.

She grimaced and pushed the drink aside, suddenly nauseous.

She muttered, "You are so broken."

Then she shook her head. _Talking to yourself; the first sign of madness._

With nothing to occupy her hands, her fingers crawled across the table instead.

Sam's camera had survived Yamatai somehow. From it they'd been able to salvage footage and several photos. In a masochistic moment since returning, she had the latter printed.

The matte images were spread across the faux-teak surface. She picked up her favourite – a shot of the entire gang on the Endurance deck, just before the storm. All that hope and excitement. So many smiles. Even from Reyes, if you considered her arms-crossed-lip-curled combo a smile.

She, herself, had been a bundle of nerves. It had been her first expedition as a proper, qualified archaeologist. Even with Whitman throwing his credentials and experience around, everything was riding on _her_ research and theories. The discovery of Yamatai was going to be how she made her mark. Then nobody would ever again associate her with her professional joke of a father.

So much for that…

Lara Croft limped home empty handed. No one knew that she had found it; she couldn't tell anyone about a storm-ravaged island populated by mad misogynist cultists, immortal samurai warriors and a soul-swapping sorcerer queen.

So the only thing that could be said about her research and theories was that they resulted in four Endurance crewmates getting off that island.

Only four.

Because of her.

Roth, Grim, Alex – that misguided, love-struck idiot – they had all died to save her.

And in the end, what had their sacrifice been for? Despite her "I'm not going home" bluster on the rescue ship, here she was. Back to normal – a normal that she felt completely separate from, like she was observing it from behind one-way glass.

She knew what it was. She'd read extensively about it since she'd been back. Survivor's guilt. Post-traumatic stress disorder. The events on Yamatai had shaken her to her very core. Like a violent submarine earthquake, they had unmoored her from the definition of self that had anchored her for decades. In turn she'd been startled by the vastness of her capabilities, which had revealed a future as wide open as the Pacific Ocean. It was a massive opportunity for change. And yet, no sooner was she back surrounded by what she knew – safe in her little harbour – than all drive had drained from her. She sat, instead, propped up in the dry docks. Immobile and useless.

She sipped on her tea. So much for _making it count_ , the way Roth had insisted they would.

She couldn't fit back into society, let alone embark on her grand quest for –

A wail.

Followed by her name being shrieked.

Instantly she was on her feet. It was amazing how Pavlovian her response to that sound had become, and how quickly.

"Sam!" she yelled back. "Saaaammmm!"

She charged down the passageway to her best friend's room.

Her shoulder collided with the door at the same moment her fist closed around the handle. No extra force was necessary though. The door opened easily enough, despite Sam's tendency in recent weeks to lock it. Evidently tonight wasn't one of those occasions.

The screaming had stopped by the time Lara stepped into the dark room. In its place was sobbing.

 _Oh, God._

Lara swallowed. "Sam?"

The archaeologist advanced towards the lump marring the bed's clean geometric silhouette.

Even standing right next to the mattress it was difficult to make out Sam clearly in the gloom. She was curled in a foetal position though; Lara could see that. And quivering.

The young Englishwoman knelt next to her best friend. She reached out. "Sam, I'm here. It's me."

The Japanese-American girl jerked at the touch. Her hands clawed and she glared at Lara – glared through her – like a furious, freshly disturbed cat.

 _Oh, she'd been dreaming._

Lara started to apologise as Sam blinked herself free of deep sleep.

The filmmaker's shuddering didn't stop though, and as she surfaced from unconsciousness, it only worsened.

Her expression crumpled. Even with little light to illuminate her features, the escalating panic in her eyes was clear.

"Lara," she hiccupped, "I can't – I can't br – "

"You're hyperventilating."

"Wha – "

The English girl took Sam's face in her hands. "Look at me."

"La – !"

"Focus on me, Sam."

The roommates locked gazes, and Sam closed her fingers over her companion's.

Lara murmured, "It'll be alright. I'm here, and we'll do this together, alright?"

Still wheezing and wide-eyed, Sam nodded frantically.

"Good. Now copy me."

Lara inhaled slowly, held her breath to the count of four, and exhaled at a leisurely pace.

Sam mirrored her.

Lara didn't explain that the exact same breathing pattern had become part of every day for her. At least twice over a 24-hour period, she scrambled for it like a flare when everything closed in on her.

But she wouldn't admit it to Sam. During times like these, the archaeologist had to be the strong, assured one. So she forced an encouraging smile. "That's my girl." As the words left her lips, she imagined it was Roth growling his approval; not her.

The roommates cycled through the breathing exercise together several times. Eventually Lara felt her companion's grip on her fingers loosen.

"There." Lips twitching with the effort needed to sustain reassurance she didn't feel, the English girl added, "Now let's get you some tea."

* * *

In the kitchen, Lara found herself taking a series of guilt-powered gut blows. As she busied herself with the tea and laying out a plate of scavenged biscuits, she kept stealing glances at Sam.

The vibrant, live-in-the-moment girl who had taught Lara there was as much to appreciate in the present as the past, sat listlessly at the table. There were rings under her vacant, rheumy eyes and her lips hung mournful and loose.

She was a mess. And it was entirely her best friend's fault.

 _You've done this to her, Lara. Don't ever, for one second, think that you saved her. You caused all of this. Her pain; the others' deaths…_

The young Englishwoman was so intent on ignoring the serpent's hiss inside her skull that she almost tuned out the real voice of her flatmate.

Sam sighed heavily, "What's wrong with me, Lara? I thought once we were back, once we were far away from that Godawful place, things would be better."

"I wish I had the answer, believe me."

Sam's gaze latched onto her friend's. "You're still having nightmares too?"

No need for bravado now. Lara nodded.

"Shit. I'm sorry, babe."

The English girl shrugged as she placed a mug of tea before her companion. "You pick yourself up and you carry on. What else can you do?"

"Therapy?"

"No. I don't think I can talk honestly about my feelings if I can't explain what really happened."

Sam pulled a face. "You may have a point there. I can't say I feel like the shrink sessions are working. I mean I'm going and I'm no better than you."

"It takes time, Sam."

The filmmaker snapped back, "How long?"

Her outburst was so sudden; so unexpected that Lara's tongue tangled in her response. She took so long that the flame behind Sam's glare sputtered and died. Mouth twisted in an imminent bawl, the American girl whined, "How long, Lara? Tell me. I just want to feel normal again; not like I constantly have fingers crawling over my skin. And under it."

A horrifying thought knuckled the archaeologist in her kidneys. She swallowed.

They had spent so much time apart on the island, and she had been so completely immersed in her own ordeal that she had never thought – or wanted – to ask.

"Sam, the Solarii, when you were their prisoner, they never…?" She realised her voice was shaking. "Did they?"

"No," the American girl shook her head. She looked even more tired than before. "Not that I was sure about their intentions to begin with, the way most of them were drooling over me. But Mathias wouldn't let anything happen. He didn't want his Chosen One defiled." Then she snorted, "Fortunately Himiko didn't factor my college days into her purity requirements."

Lara couldn't even summon a smile to accompany her friend's hollow laugh.

Sam cocked her head, instantly serious again. "And you, Lara? They didn't?"

"No..."

The English girl felt phantom bristles and rank breath play over her cheek, and she cringed. "Well, there was one, kind of. Vladimir."

Sam's eyes widened. "Vladimir? The guy who was your first?"

"That's a terrible way of putting it but yeah. Brutal, awful man. He started feeling me up, and I… reacted. I guess having to fend off the occasional drunk pawing at The Nine Bells was good for something."

She didn't add that, with her hands tied behind her back, and the sounds of gunshots and men's dying cries echoing out of the gloom, she had never felt more afraid in her life… That was until mere minutes later when all that fear refocused on herself, and under that spotlight she was forced to consider what she was capable of when pushed.

Sam saw straight through the dismissiveness. She took Lara's hand and squeezed it. "Bastards," the filmmaker muttered.

* * *

By the time they finished their tea, Sam had sunk back within herself. When Lara made a move to return to her bedroom, the filmmaker yelped her name.

"Lara?"

"Yes, Sam?"

The American girl's eyes darted between the passageway and her best friend. "I – I can't go back to my room. I don't want to be in there alone."

"Do you want me to stay up with you?" Lara pressed her palm to Sam's shoulder. Instantly, the filmmaker clasped her fingers.

"I can't ask that. You look exhausted."

Lara shrugged. That hated voice in her head was back like tinnitus, droning _All her pain is your doing._

But Sam seemed to find a solution on her own. "Can – Can I sleep with you? In your room? I think it'll help if I can just feel another presence there with me, you know?"

What Lara couldn't understand was why Sam, of all _carpe diem_ epicureans, was being so skittish and shy about her request. It wasn't a common occurrence but the friends had shared a bed several times over the years, normally as a result of a botched accommodation booking during their travels. It was nothing to be awkward about.

So Lara found her reassuring smile easily enough. "Of course it's alright. Now come on."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

With powerful strokes she hauled her body free of the nightmare, as if she was dozens of feet below the ocean surface.

It was an emergency ascent. Eyes fixed on the dancing plates of silver above her, she used everything in her arms and legs to propel her motion upwards before she ran out of air.

She had to get out before she drowned; before she suffocated among the unwanted images looming out at her from the blue. Just like frenzying sharks.

The worst image, the one that kept butting and biting at her, came as a highlights reel from the nightmare she'd just escaped. In the dream, she hadn't saved Sam in time. Mathias's little diversion had been enough. He was dead but his tussle with Lara had sapped precious minutes from her rescue attempt. Bleeding, breathless – still on her hands and knees – Lara was powerless to do anything but watch as Himiko completed the transference ceremony.

The archaeologist had never entertained the thought of what a soul would look like. A corporeal form for such a vaunted, mystical concept was complete nonsense. But just then, she could see it – she could see Sam dying behind her pupils. In the last moments the filmmaker's eyelids lifted and she looked straight at her best friend. She was even more terrified than on the ritual pyre.

Lara tried to crawl towards her; tried to call out reassurances over the gale's howl. But it was done. As Himiko's soul smothered Sam's, the girl's soft, perfect cheeks hardened into centuries-old leather. Her features warped. Her flesh cracked open to reveal hollowness, like a long-forgotten nut found under the couch.

Sam's eyes were those of the queen. They gleamed malice as much as her smile.

"Your promise was meaningless. You failed, Lara Croft."

* * *

Finally, Lara's head broke the surface.

She found herself back in the dimness of her bedroom, propped up on her elbows on the mattress as she sucked in mouthfuls of air.

She glanced down her front. No wonder it felt like she'd been swimming; she'd soaked through another shirt.

 _Sod it._

She toyed with the idea of getting out of bed and changing her top for a second time in one night, but she didn't want to disturb Sam, who was curled up next to her.

Instead, Lara flopped backwards. She brushed the damp strands of fringe away from her steaming forehead and grimaced at the bedside clock. 4:12am. Just far enough into the next day that she knew her emotional equilibrium would be thrown for the next 12 hours at least.

 _Bugger._

So she did what she always did in such moments post-Yamatai – tried to anchor herself in her mundane, decidedly magic-free reality. She stared at the ceiling for a bit. Then at various familiar objects in her room: the plastic wash basket overflowing with laundry; her desk strewn with books, notes and her geriatric laptop; the pin board she'd decorated with photos, ticket stubs and print memorabilia from the various adventures she'd shared with her best friend.

She glanced over at her sleeping companion.

 _I just want to feel normal again, too, Sam._

As if in response, the American girl squeaked. She started quivering and kicking under the duvet.

Another nightmare.

Lara wasn't sure whether it was better to leave her friend to fight through it, or wake and potentially strand her in a bewildering limbo zone between sleep and consciousness.

The anguish on Sam's face though, as Lara leaned over – plus the knowledge that the English girl was responsible for it – that combination was enough to make up her mind.

The archaeologist was reaching for her companion when Sam's eyes opened wide. An instant later she was sitting upright, staring straight ahead of herself.

She sat like that for ages, her expression blank where it was visible around the edge of her bob.

"Sam?" Lara eventually prompted when she thought her friend had had enough time to mentally settle herself. "Are you okay?"

The filmmaker turned to look at her. Worryingly, her face remained an empty canvas.

Kneeling next to her, Lara tried again. "Sam, are you alright?"

At that, the American girl's expression crumpled. "Nooooo," she keened. Then she folded into Lara's arms.

The archaeologist held onto her friend as she convulsed with sobs.

"Sshhhhh, ssshhhhhh, it's alright. I'm here. I'm here, Sam."

Snotty and shaking, the American girl pulled back to frown at her companion.

"God, Lara, you're burning up."

"I'm fine. I just had a bad dream." _A night terror, more like._ "It's okay."

Sam shook her head violently. "No. No, it's not _okay_. Fuck this shit. Fuck all of it! I just – I want – "

She grabbed handfuls of her roommate's shirt.

"Lara, please, you have to help me."

"Of course. Anything."

"Make – " Sam swallowed. "Make me feel good."

"How do I –?"

Suddenly, Sam's palms were full of Lara's breasts.

Horrifyingly, the English girl felt her skin tighten at the touch.

It's reflex, she told herself. Pure physical reflex. You haven't had sex in months. Your body is just reacting after a lengthy period of deprivation. Like desert plants blooming when a half-millimetre of rainfall ends a decade of drought.

The archaeologist was so busy trying to rationalise her response that she did nothing until her companion's lips skimmed her own.

Lara jerked backwards at the same instant her hands closed around Sam's wrists.

"What are you doing?"

Sam scowled, "I just – I need to feel good, Lara. Physically. Get out of my fucking head for five minutes. Replace the darkness with something else; something positive; something life-affirming.."

"Sam, I – I'm not gay. I didn't think you were eith – "

"You're the only one I can stand touching me."

"That isn't a good enough reason for this."

Lara lessened her grip, allowing Sam to pull her limbs free.

The American girl folded her arms across herself. Hunched, she rubbed listlessly at the spots where Lara had grabbed her. Too forcefully, most like. But the archaeologist didn't have a chance to express her remorse. Sam was mumbling again, into her lap.

"I feel like I've forgotten what it's like. To simply feel content. Happy. To not be waking in tears every night, terrified of everything from crowds to lone figures to Goddamn shadows." She looked up at Lara. "Why won't you give me that?"

Sam's eyes glistened. She was holding back her tears; just. It was like peering through a pane of glass into an aquarium tank beyond.

Her companion found herself stuttering. "I'm sorry, Sam. I – I can't."

"Because of stupid labels? Or because you're not attracted to me?" Sam sat up straight, so her gaze aligned perfectly with her friend's. "Because I don't believe it's a case of the latter."

Sam's hands shot up under the English girl's shirt. Thumbs stroked over nipples and Lara sucked in a breath.

She'd felt that. Between her legs.

It started as a gentle tug at her chest, before the sensation headed south. It echoed and amplified the deeper it travelled in her body, culminating in a single, hard throb.

What did she want, truly? Until now, it had always been her work. But that passion had largely turned to ash in the aftermath of the island. Lately, knowledge felt cold and dead, lying there on every page like a corpse on a morgue slab.

Sam, though, was life… Warm flesh and blood; a pumping heart.

"Lara, please."

The filmmaker's words drew Lara's gaze to her plump, perfect lips.

The archaeologist had never looked at her best friend like that. Desired her. Truthfully, Lara had never really desired anyone. The sex she'd had had always stemmed from one of four things: curiosity, want of diversion, stupid drunkenness and, well, if she was being honest, peer pressure.

This felt different though. And the fact that the yearning had evidently come out of nowhere rattled her to the core.

She heard her own voice, throaty and languid.

 _She's broken because of you, Lara. You swore you'd do anything to make amends. That means giving her what she needs. You really want the alternative she pursues to be drugs or booze or one night stands?_

Lara's eyes returned to the chocolate irises of her companion.

This was Sam. This was her best friend. And she was clearly hurting. Vulnerable. What she wanted wasn't a solution; it was a kneejerk reaction to desperation. A dangerous stopgap.

Lara muttered, "This is a bad idea."

Yet she hadn't pulled away. Sam was still cupping her breasts under her shirt.

That fact wasn't lost on the filmmaker. She purred, "Tell me honestly you don't need this too."

Lara couldn't deny it.

Since returning to the UK, she'd been afflicted by permanent agitation – restless legs syndrome for her body and mind. No matter what she did, nothing provided the physical release she craved. She would run for hours, until her legs turned to jelly mid-stride and she was embarrassingly forced to the ground wherever she found herself. She'd hit the climbing gym until her shoulders burned and her fingers were permanently clawed and raw. But it was never enough.

Nothing had been able to satisfy her, or distract her from the maddening flutter in her chest.

Perhaps Sam's proposed insanity actually could.

 _Give her what she needs. What you need._

Sam's hands released Lara's breasts. They trailed south, over the English girl's stomach, and under the waistband of her pyjama bottoms.

Lara didn't resist the exploration. A part of her demanded proof of the wants she had never considered, or admitted.

She found confirmation in the way Sam's fingers slid effortlessly over her.

"Oh, sweetie," the filmmaker cooed.

Then Sam withdrew her hand and shifted a half foot away from her roommate on the mattress.

Lara didn't understand until Sam tugged her sleep shirt over her head, and promptly discarded her shorts.

The American girl reclined among the covers. "Help me, Lara. Help me forget."

The sight heated the archaeologist's cheeks, and, God help her, other parts of her anatomy. She shifted uncomfortably where she remained kneeling.

This wasn't accidentally catching a glimpse of her flatmate starkers in the bathroom, or while they were getting dressed for a night out. This was Sam presenting herself, as a shameless part of the human mating ritual.

Her figure was more boyish that Lara's; the curves less pronounced. The young women were the same height, but Sam had always appeared slighter and softer; her restlessness burning off fat and preventing the development of muscle.

Looking at her like that – appreciating her, and imagining what it would be like to palm those planes of pale flesh – Lara felt a twinge in her groin again. She clenched her eyes shut, mortified by her reaction.

 _She's your best friend…_

 _Who you scaled a mountain for._

 _Who you killed dozens of men for._

 _Who you carried home, like you promised._

 _Who you would do anything for if it helped her heal._

The archaeologist was slapped by a question she hadn't considered before: Had the events on Yamatai woken her to what mattered most in her life? Had she sailed away from that cursed place with the greatest treasure of all – knowledge about what she really wanted, all along?

"Lara."

At the mention of her name, the Englishwoman slowly opened her eyes again.

Sam gazed up at her. Her voice was velvet, but the anguish in her pupils still grated her companion.

"Give this to me, Lara. Please. Just for a few minutes. Make me feel good again."

The archaeologist was still hesitating. If they did this, their friendship would be altered forever. They would never be able to reclaim what they'd been to one another for half a decade.

Sam took the decision away from her. The American sprang upright.

"Fuck me."

Teeth pinched down on Lara's neck. She howled as she was branded with a brutal hickey.

The pain did something to her. She shoved her companion away.

Short of breath and furious, she snarled, "Goddammit, Sam! That hurt!"

But Sam was like a cat that had been found on the kitchen counter and roughly deposited on the floor. Eyes glazed with intent, she leapt back at her target.

Her mouth was on Lara's.

And the archaeologist was kissing her back. Ravenous.

Sam's arms tightened around the English girl's neck, holding her in place. Lara's own hands were clawed, and digging into Sam's bare arse. She had no intention of letting her companion go either.

Sitting upright, they seemed to rock their bodies together – one clothed, one nude – for ages before Sam broke from the kiss.

"Fuck me," she whispered, right against Lara's lips, so the archaeologist felt it as she heard it.

That became their mantra.

"Fuck me." As Sam tugged hard on Lara's hair.

"Fuck me." Before the English girl's shirt was ripped out the way.

"Fuck me." While Sam pounded Lara's chest and spat nonsense expletives in her face.

It was like a spell from a fairy tale, or a religious incantation. Every time the filmmaker said it, a little more tenderness drained from their actions. Until ultimately, there was no softness left. Pain and pleasure were the same thing, and there was nothing else.

* * *

It was far rougher than Lara liked it. Than she'd ever had it in the past.

Sam's nails digging into her shoulders. Raking deliberately deep so they left livid welts in their wake.

Sam drawing blood when her teeth snapped shut on Lara's bottom lip.

These things, they triggered something in the battle-scarred archaeologist.

Since the island she'd been flailing. On Yamatai she'd grown used to being The Outsider. Unstoppable. Feared. Since being back though, she was just a girl again in the eyes of the world. Lara Croft was seen as simply another wet-behind-the-ears graduate – pretty to look at, but with nothing to contribute. Silver-haired men continually talked over her; denied that she had any capability.

She had tumbled from the wardrobe a child when she had once ruled as a Queen in Narnia.

And she hadn't realised how addictive that kind of power was until she lost it.

Enraged at the unfairness of it, she slammed Sam on the mattress, probably winding her.

Lara didn't care.

Just then she wanted to leave bruises.

She pinned Sam by the wrist.

At one point Lara found her fist around her companion's throat. It was part of a reflex response to an especially hard bite on her nipple. She was mid-growl; an animal's wordless warning to a defiant Sam not to do that again. But in those moments the Englishwoman also briefly saw herself as Vladimir, and that was too much for her; too far. She'd crossed a line into reprehensibility, and she immediately released her choking grip.

Then she was furious at herself. Disgusted. The only solution was to let Sam flip her onto her back, and abuse her some more.

* * *

Rage kept her going. It mostly distracted her from how clumsy she felt.

After all, it was her first time, essentially.

She wasn't entirely sure what to do with a woman. She tried to recall the motions that worked for her on the very rare occasion she touched herself.

The ones she chose, they seemed to work for Sam.

The American girl arched up into her. "God, yes."

Still, it took a little while to find an angle that worked hands-free for the both of them, without the painful intermittent clash of hip bones.

Propped on one elbow over her lover, her other arm reaching down between their bodies, Lara gritted her teeth.

 _Christ, this was hard work._

With guys, no matter how dominant she was being, inevitably there came a point where she was simply being thrust into. This, though, was her being entirely responsible for another person's pleasure. For Sam.

So she kept going, generating friction for the both of them. Straddling Sam's thigh as she moved against her. Until, finally, she was aware of the filmmaker scrambling for fistfuls of sheets, and crying her name.

So different a sound from on Yamatai.

Still, Lara wasn't sure.

"Sam," she gasped. "Have you –?"

A kiss was the response. Followed by one of Sam's hands joining hers under the duvet. The filmmaker interlaced their fingers and pressed both sets of digits against the archaeologist.

Lara didn't swear that often but the sensation had her rasping. "Fuck..."

"Keep going," Sam encouraged. She was her softer self again, a contented housecat instead of a feral, mangy alley dweller.

Lara's own climax surprised her. Like she'd suddenly woken on a rollercoaster moments before its initial drop. She yelled out as she plunged over the pinnacle.

Sam was watching her the whole time. Her sphinx-like expression rattled the archaeologist. Lara felt ashamed that she was experiencing something so intimate in front of her best friend but she couldn't stop herself. Her orgasm just didn't end. Teeth clenched against the noise, her entire body shuddering, she fought it.

When the waves did finally subside, she found herself making the same primal sounds she did after a half-marathon run. She was still trembling.

That had been the most intense climax of her life.

So why was a tear teetering on the ridge of her cheekbone? _How messed up was she?_

Sam didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

She pulled Lara down into her arms.

The archaeologist's world narrowed to limbs and lips, slick and sliding continually against each other.

* * *

When Lara eventually woke to bright sunlight outlining the curtains, she was alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Lara jolted upright.

She fixated on the bare patch of mattress next to her. Perfect, like it had never been slept on at all.

 _What the Hell?_

She felt the cry building in her chest, but she just managed to swallow it back down. To call out her flatmate's name in a panic would be far too embarrassing; pitiful even, if…

She ran her palm over the smooth sheet.

 _It happened, didn't it?_

She realised she was sitting there naked.

She never slept nude. Ever. Even before Yamatai, the sensation made her feel too subconsciously vulnerable to truly relax. And if she couldn't relax, her rest was superficial and unsatisfying.

She spotted her shirt flung across the room, and her pyjama bottoms scrunched up at the foot of the bed.

That portion of the puzzle solved, she flopped backwards, and rubbed her hands over her face. The discarded clothing was proof. Or, it was if she shot down the alternatives that kept popping up like arcade game gophers.

She could have fought free of her sleepwear in the middle of a terror. That could have happened.

Just as the events of last night could have happened.

She played her fingertips over her bottom lip, the exact same way Sam's tongue had traced the pillow of flesh.

 _Could_ have traced, she corrected herself. It wasn't certain any more.

She couldn't believe Sam would just get up and go post-shag, though. Even less credible was the American girl making her side of the bed. Sure, Sam sneaked out on guys she hooked up with, but she wouldn't treat her best friend in the same dismissive manner.

Lara refused to believe that.

So her always-theorising, always-problem-solving mind skipped to the next probability. Things had been so different since Yamatai. She had been different. Maybe at the age of 21, her inflamed brain had burrowed down into itself, and emerged with her first ever wet dream.

The dream had taken a highly inappropriate form, but it was still a respite from the nightmares.

Tentatively, she reached down between her legs.

She winced. Even if last night was a dream, her physical response had been genuine.

Touching herself reminded her how good it had felt.

"Bugger."

Already her life felt like she was permanently wading thigh deep through the water-logged wreckage of the Endurance. Dropping another spiked complication among the flotsam, now she had to contend with the possibility that she was a lesbian.

 _Brilliant timing, Lara. Superb!_

* * *

She toyed with the prospect of lying in bed all day – it was already well past 10 – and continually slapping herself over what she'd done, or imagined doing. However, the longer she lay there trying to recall exact details from the previous night, the more it felt disconcertingly like she was grabbing at shadows darting around deep in a muddy pool.

Eventually, physically itching with a need for answers, she gathered her clothes and her courage, and left her cave.

 _Real or not real? Real or not real?_

She was mentally flipping a coin as she advanced down the passage to the living area. Along the way she couldn't help but notice the many framed photos of herself and Sam grinning out from the walls – and the past.

So many adventures together. Just as many misadventures.

The friends were different in multiple ways – Lara studious and shy, Sam highly sensorial and social – yet that seemed to work to their advantage. They balanced each other out.

For Lara, that took the form of having her eyes opened to personal pleasures in the present. Because, sometimes, and she admitted it, she wandered so deep into her head that she forgot to actually live. She was insufferably earnest about everything, and so socially stiff she practically left rust marks where she stood at a party. Sam shook her loose – the Tin Woodsman being helped by Dorothy with her oil can.

Together the two young women didn't stop and sniff the roses. Together, hand in hand, they dove into the bushes – normally so drunk they didn't even feel the thorns.

* * *

Lara remembered a moment during their Kilimanjaro trip. Of course Sam had instantly befriended the blonde, bronzed German boys sharing their camp site. After a hard day's hike – even for her – Lara just wanted to stretch out in the tent and write in her journal. Instead, she found herself sitting fireside with a cup of Konyagi and Coke, smiling politely while Sam flirted shamelessly.

Lara was reluctant to be social, but she owed her best friend. She'd pushed Sam hard that day, to the point that even the filmmaker's enthusiasm for capturing everything on camera faded, and she grew uncharacteristically silent and contemplative. It was only once they arrived at the campsite, and the American girl spotted the Germans that she perked up. "Oh my God, Lara," she'd whispered. "Cute guys. And one for each of us."

So it was only fair to let Sam enjoy frolicking in her element for a bit.

Even if that meant the gregarious girl took control of the spotlight, and could point it at her flatmate whenever she felt like it.

Like just then.

Sam and the Germans were clustered on the other side of the fire, and there was something ominous about the way the trio grinned at Lara over their drinks.

The archaeology student could just hear her friend explaining. "That, gentlemen, if you would believe it, is a British girl gone wild. Disappointing, right? Nothing like in the news."

Flame-cheeked, Lara frowned, "I can hear you."

The American girl stuck out her tongue. She was well on her way to tipsy. "Oh just shut up and get drunk like the rest of us."

Lara had a spikey retort ready for Sam when the taller of the Germans deposited himself next to the young brunette. He murmured, "I'm not disappointed" before extending his hand. "Ulrich. And you're Lara?"

"Yes." She found her palm in his, quite by accident. Ulrich had a broad, stubble framed smile, and broader shoulders. That combination always distracted her.

She was still trying to piece together a sentence, feeling horridly awkward, when Sam yelled out, "Don't mind her, Ulrich. She's English. _Ministry of Silly Walks_ , _Do you have a flag?_ and all that. They're just weird – sticks up their arses all the time. We may have lost the War but we win at knowing how to have a good time."

Lara glared at her, "Sam, that's really insensitive."

"Psssshhhh," her companion waved her hand dismissively, before stumbling over, grabbing Lara's wrist and pulling her upright. "Come and join the Axis of Fun."

Lara's attempt at resistance was half-hearted. She could feel the booze starting to have an effect; her inhibitions falling away. She turned, to find Ulrich right behind her.

That night honestly wasn't what she expected at all. Well, for the most part. At some point, Sam still disappeared with the other guy, Michael. But Lara managed to remain balanced on the perfect point of tipsiness. She felt relaxed, cheerful, but still in control of herself and her situation.

She stayed up until dawn with Ulrich, with whom she found she had a surprising amount in common. He was a complete gentleman who kept, embarrassingly, commenting on her beauty. They talked – he was a Civil Engineer with an interest in the historical evolution of water delivery and drainage systems – and then they snogged a bit. Fingers interlaced, they capped their evening by watching the primordial African sunrise together.

She wasn't used to holiday flings. Normally when she travelled she was at Roth's side, and his combination of scowl and shoulder holsters was most effective at scaring off would-be suitors. With Ulrich though, it had been nice. They were still friends on Facebook, actually.

And she wouldn't have had that experience if it wasn't for Sam.

* * *

It was about more than expanding world views and being helped out of comfort zones, though. All the teasing and exasperated sighs aside, the two girls were always there for one another – bolstering the other when they were crumpling under the combined weight of their ambitions and brutal reality. At their core, they actually were the same; with the same insecurities, dreams and secret sense of separateness from everyone else. Deep down, they were bonded by the fact neither really had a home or family, and they'd found a substitute in each other.

Back to the coin metaphor. They were opposite sides of the same token; stamped differently, but made from identical metal.

There was nobody Lara enjoyed experiencing the world with more. There was nobody she was closer to in life.

Was she really going to compromise that?

Or was it already too late?

She didn't have a chance to agonise further.

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table.

The first thing that sprang to the front of Lara's mind was the coarse expression, _don't shit where you eat_.

Well, it was too late for that.

The second thing to strike her was her best friend's appearance.

Sam was dressed.

She wasn't brooding or evidently emotionally torn up in any way, like she had been the prior evening.

She was sitting upright, sipping coffee and skimming through film industry news on her iPad. She looked up then, gave her roommate a cheerful, utterly platonic smile, and dropped her gaze to the screen before her.

"Morning, sleepyhead. I just boiled the kettle if you want some tea."

Lara forced a croaked, "Hey."

Sam continued to look down. "I'm going to run some errands. You want anything from Sainsbury's? I saw your Jaffa stash is running low."

Lara just gaped at her.

 _Not real._

Sam continued to prattle on. "Sweetie, you alright? It's not like you to lie in."

 _Not real._

Lara felt the icy skitter of anxiety along her arms and the back of her neck. The ground tilted to forty five degrees under her feet, causing her to snatch at the doorframe for balance. She clasped her face in her free hand, and tried to focus on her steady breathing instead of her frenetic pulse. That, and the sudden compulsion to vomit.

When she opened her eyes again, Sam was looking at her. She frowned, "Earth to Lara Croft… Are you okay, babe? You look – "

"Sam, did we – ?" Lara blurted, before she had a chance to think the question through. Halfway through, though, she froze.

 _How did you word something like that?_

She couldn't see herself shrugging casually, "Hey, did we shag like wild animals last night? I'm not sure." Just dropping a statement like that in conversation – as if it was the most normal thing in the world, to sleep with your best friend. And proceed to forget all about it.

The longer her flatmate looked at her, bright eyed and quizzical, the more nervous Lara felt. She started stammering. Eventually she squeaked out, "Did – Did we pay last month's gas bill?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam cocked her head, "Lara, seriously, are you sick? The doctor said to watch for anything odd after the island. You were exposed to a lot of weird shit."

"No." The archaeologist summoned a weak smile. "I'm alright. Just a panic attack over something stupid."

She didn't wait for a response. She dashed to the kitchen sink and proceeded to down two glasses of water.

Then she filled her palms with the liquid and splashed her face. She was suddenly terrified that something had snapped within her, and she was actually going mad.

Sex-themed psychosis. For extra lols.

She turned to find her roommate right behind her.

Lara muttered, "I said I'm fine, Sa– "

The filmmaker's mouth was on hers; her fingers clasping her cheeks.

The murky waters Lara had been sifting through ran clear.

 _Real._

The kiss didn't last long though.

Sam broke from it first. She let her hands drop to Lara's shoulders. She smiled softly, "God, you Brits and keeping quiet because you don't want to make a fuss."

"It really happened?" Lara felt like she was expelling a breath she'd been holding since waking. It was a huge relief… and at the same time, not.

"Yes."

The archaeologist was expecting chuckles and light-hearted dismissiveness from Sam. That wasn't the American girl's response however. Her smile faded into blankness, and she busied herself readjusting the fold of Lara's robe, left over right.

Lara filled the silence. "We shouldn't have done that, Sam. It was a mistake."

"Really?"

Honesty was never something she had battled with. "You are the most important person in my life."

"And you're mine."

"So we can't jeopardise that with… whatever that was last night."

Still avoiding her companion's gaze, Sam repeated in a whisper, "Whatever that was last night…"

"I was hoping that you'd have an answer... What it was? What it means for us?"

"I don't know. I don't think it has to mean anything in the grand scheme of things."

"How can it not?"

Lara could feel herself growing exasperated over Sam's apparent disinterest. The American girl had vastly more sexual experience but Lara couldn't believe their night together belonged in the same category as all those casual flings. "Friends don't just shag, Sam. It's not normal, no matter how close we are."

"Maybe. But I think we both needed it."

"So you're saying it was a once-off thing? An anomaly? We just forget it ever happened and carry on with our lives?"

"Isn't that what we're trying to do with Yamatai?"

That bolt hit Lara's heart square on.

She stiffened as Sam took a step backwards. The American girl finally raised her eyes again. "But I'm not saying any of that, Lara." She grimaced, "You're the only person I feel safe with. My shrink would hate me saying that, but it's true."

The archaeologist was struggling to follow the logic trail. She leaned back against the sink. "So what do you want from me?"

"To just be there for me, like you were last night. And I'll be there for you."

So Lara was little more than one of Sam's hook-ups. The only difference was that post-Yamatai, the English girl was the only body her friend could tolerate in her bed. An acceptable way to fill the void.

It didn't matter that Lara was confused about her feelings. The realisation of how Sam saw her still stung, and her response reflected that venom. "I believe that's called 'friends with benefits'. Or, simply, a 'pity fuck.'"

Sam shook her head. "I see it as a coping strategy."

Lara scowled. She almost spat the word back. _Coping_.

Sam was too good a reader of people not to notice her roommate's shift in mood. She reached out and rested her hand on one of Lara's clenched fists in a conciliatory gesture. "Last night felt good, right? And afterwards you slept through with no more nightmares?"

That part was true.

Lara nodded, sullen.

"I've been thinking a lot this morning about why that was."

"And what was your conclusion?"

"You mean apart from me being a spectacular lay?"

Sam flashed a cheeky grin, prompting a groan from Lara – and for a moment it all felt like older, simpler times. She wanted to cling to the sensation; she just couldn't.

"Sam, be serious. Please."

"I know, I know." The American's smile flatlined. "The way it happened was a complete mess, but at the same time it was a safe way to vent all our frustrations. Our fear. Our anger. In a way that wasn't self-harming. And with the one person who won't judge. Who knows what really happened. Who understands…" Her confidence seemed to wilt, and she concluded with a shrug. "At least that's how it felt to me."

Lara contemplated Sam's statement, and in turn the possibility of a further unwanted effect from the island. Like stress triggering cancer in healthy cells, Yamatai had forced a mutation of the girls' friendship. Was the next step in its evolution really to become sexual punching bags for one another every Witching Hour?

Sam attempted to blast through her companion's doubts with a smile. "Babe, I know it's weird, and wrong, but it works. Well, it did once and I expect it'll do so again."

"How will this not complicate us at best; destroy us at worst?"

"Because there'll be strict rules."

Rules were not Sam's strong point. Increasingly, the Englishwoman was finding they weren't hers either. She was about to grumble as much when the filmmaker pressed her palm against Lara's chest bone.

"This will help. Both of us. I truly believe it, Lara."

Sam's expression was all pale, pinched earnestness as she said it, and the archaeologist was reminded of her friend's quivering desperation the night before.

" _Lara, please, you have to help me… Help me, Lara. Help me forget."_

Sam had turned to a scarred, scared, Yamatai survivor. Whether foolish or not, she'd put her trust in a fellow veteran who carried the horrors of that island within her like shrapnel.

 _You made a promise, Lara._

It was irrelevant how much she physically wanted it.

Sam's needs were her priority.

So she clasped the American girl's fingers in her own. "Tell me how this works exactly."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

So they had an agreement.

The best way Lara could describe it was _needs-based physical release_.

The shared bed had been a once-off thing, as it turned out; every night they slept in their separate rooms. However, if either of the girls had a bad dream, they could rush to the other and find solace in their arms.

That point remained unsatisfying for Lara though.

The arrangement ran both ways, yet she never sought out her best friend post-terror. Frankly, the Englishwoman was scared of what that possible action would imply for her. So when she had one of her sanity-testing nightmares, she would struggle on alone, lying sweat-drenched on the mattress.

It was always Sam who came to her.

The American girl would arrive quivering and wet cheeked. Or, rather more disconcertingly, utterly blank faced.

Meanwhile, Lara would never call what the young women did _making love_. That implied a tenderness never present in their nocturnal trysts.

They were also far too vicious with each other for it to be classified as _friends with benefits_. Neither of them held anything back. Scratches and bruises accompanied their orgasms. And on the rare occasion Lara's guilt kicked in, and she attempted to be gentler with her physical consolation, Sam would slap her, or call her names, or grab a fistful of her hair right at the scalp.

Any of those reactions would cause the Englishwoman's vision to red out, just as it had on Yamatai, and the next second she would have Sam pinned. And yelping.

Whether from pain or pleasure, or some combination of the two, Lara didn't care.

It was always dark and desperate and angry – fucking away their frustrations and fears.

At least until one night a fortnight later.

Exactly as Lara expected, her best friend couldn't stick to the rules.

* * *

The Englishwoman had just pushed Sam to her pinnacle.

In the aftermath, with the American girl still trembling and whimpering beneath her, Lara found herself considering how akin the whole experience was to climbing. The pair of friends had tackled a few rock faces together over the years – basic ones; Sam wasn't nearly as advanced as her flatmate – and the experience normally ended with them short of breath, sweaty and desperate for a slug of water.

The archaeologist flexed her fingers. They were even stiff and aching like she'd spent half a day crimping upwards and wedging chocks.

Lara was still pondering the simile when Sam grabbed her by her left triceps and the back of her neck. At the same time, the filmmaker hooked one leg over her companion's, and arched over her shoulder. An eye blink later, their positions were reversed – Lara was on her back with the American girl propped over her.

Sam promptly kissed away her flatmate's anticipatory grin.

Except it wasn't capped with a nip or any other roughness.

The filmmaker's mouth sandwiched Lara's bottom lip briefly before pecking down the brunette's neck. Tongue skimmed over clavicle before trailing south.

And then further south.

Lara kept expecting the pinch of teeth; the scrape of nails.

It never came.

Instead, in the gloom of her bedroom, she found herself gazing down her exposed body at Sam. With eyes heavy-lidded, and mouth ever so slightly curled, the filmmaker rested her chin on Lara's mons pubis.

"A thank you for my hero," she purred.

Lara was still partly breathless with exertion, but she felt her throat constrict. The tension carried through to her abs, and her companion cooed over their sudden visibility.

The archaeologist was having a hard time swallowing. "Sam…" she forced out, frowning.

There were so many reasons for this not to happen.

One: their coital roughness – Lara really didn't want her most sensitive bits exposed to any snapping or scratching savagery.

Two: the fact that Sam's obvious next move was miles outside the definition of _fucking to forget_.

It was something far more intimate.

Three: the Englishwoman was actually horrifyingly self-conscious about _down there_. The thought of her best friend –

The American girl's lips disappeared from view.

A fresh shudder ran through Lara. The sensation. The sight of Sam's head between her legs. It was way too much.

The archaeologist could count the number of lovers she'd had on one hand. As for the ones who had gone down on her, well, that was maybe half the final tally. And though she found the experience pleasant enough in the past, it was never more than that. Pleasant. It wasn't quite enough on its own.

Then again, the guys hadn't ever seemed to know what they were doing; evidently taking as their cue what they'd seen on the Internet – which tended to be too distractingly frenzied or monotonously forceful to truly enjoy.

Sam though, with her tongue and simply one finger, had Lara practically reciting the Rosary.

"Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God…" The archaeologist's head lolled back.

At some point, realising she was rocking her hips, a fresh surge of shame overtook her.

Cheeks burning, she swiped feebly at her companion. "Sam. No."

The American girl let her head flop to one side. She arched an eyebrow at the same time her Cheshire Cat smile broadened. " _No_? Is that _no_ , as in _stop_? Or is it _no_ , as in _don't stop_?"

Then, without breaking eye contact, she ran her tongue over Lara like she was licking an ice cream.

It was the Englishwoman's turn to whimper.

"Say it, Lara," Sam smirked.

"P – Please – " _What had happened to her sodding will power?_ She grimaced, and then relented. "Don't stop."

Sam didn't.

Given the noises Lara started making, God alone knew what the neighbours thought was happening on the other side of the wall that night.

* * *

Almost immediately afterwards – while the archaeologist was still splayed in Elysium fields – Sam untangled herself from her friend, and swung her legs over the side of the mattress.

Even with blood pumping everywhere but her brain, Lara knew the routine. It had swiftly been established as the norm once they adopted their unconventional PTSD treatment.

Sam would sit there for a moment, stiff and silent, facing away from her companion. Then she'd gather her clothes, dress and leave. She never stayed the night.

What had just happened was so beyond the boundaries they had set, though.

It made sense for Sam to stay.

Lara wanted her to stay.

Except, just like always, the filmmaker pushed herself upright and began retrieving her sleepwear. Suddenly modest, she pulled on vest and shorts with her back to the archaeologist.

Lara caught her flatmate's hand as she passed the bed.

"Sam, wait," the brunette gasped. "What was that?"

The American girl didn't answer. She simply stroked Lara's cheek, her smile tinted by sadness.

Then she was gone.

* * *

That should have been enough of a warning for Lara to end it.

But she was addicted to their illicit nocturnal unions – which had morphed after Sam's physically demonstrative _thank you_.

Some nights they were as rough as they were that first time; and sex was simply a vent to prevent a Vesuvian eruption. On other evenings though, they were tender in their treatment of one another. It was love-making; undeniably about showing the other person that they were still wanted and cherished despite the scarring.

Lara never thought she'd be someone governed by body over brain, but there it was.

Sam would come to her like a succubus, appearing luminous out of the dark.

The archaeologist never fought it. It got to a point where she'd just smile and shimmy out of her pyjamas. Of course, she was aware that it was wrong. It was wrong on multiple levels, but she didn't care.

Or, rather, she tried not to care.

On the nights that Sam didn't appear – and there were increasingly more of them as the filmmaker healed, and the gaps between awful dreams widened – Lara would lie awake, waiting. Actually hoping for her best friend to relapse.

She would fantasise about Sam rushing to her, and nuzzling into her arms with a hiccupped "I need you, Lara."

It was an indisputably selfish want.

So even if the American girl didn't arrive to tearfully claw at her companion, Lara was subjected to a fresh battering. A self-inflicted one.

She found herself trying to drown out an insistent voice that chafed her as if it was cerebral sandpaper. The same questions grated against her, over and over.

How much of her reaction was plain physical addiction – a craving for much needed endorphins – and how much was something else?

Had she let herself fall for her best friend? A best friend who was essentially using her?

It was hard to deflect the swipes that left her raw and angry at herself for ending up in such an emotionally complex, unsatisfying situation.

After all, there was more than enough evidence to support Lara's suspicions about Sam.

Even in the aftermath of their most affectionate sessions, the filmmaker still never spent the night.

And the women had never again spoken about their agreement.

In bright daylight it was easy to forget that it even existed. Sam was her cheerful former self around her best friend. Every "Babe" and "Sweetie" that passed her lips was utterly platonic. The same went for her hugs and caresses.

Meanwhile, worries cycled in Lara's skull like a BBC News ticker.

 _They needed their nights together. It helped._ These phrases had been thrown around, but they felt hollow; seemed to hang unfinished as if they went without full stops. Various important offshoot questions, like just how long they were going to continue, went unanswered.

It was doing her head in.

Finally, on a November morning as miserable as she was, Lara picked up her phone.

With that settled, she pulled on a hoody, layered it with a leather jacket for extra insulation – physically against the cold; psychologically against the London crowds – and headed out.

* * *

The door opened and she found herself gazing upwards, like always.

"Hey, Jonah."

"Little bird." A grin stretched across the Maori man's face. "It's so good to see you."

A heartbeat later, Lara was in his arms.

The archaeologist could instantly feel her muscles relaxing as he squeezed. Jonah gave the best hugs. It was kind of like embracing a mountain face that had been baking in the sun all day, and had the texture of marshmallow.

"It's good to see you too, Jonah," she murmured with her eyes closed.

All too soon the big man released the embrace. He ushered Lara across the threshold instead.

"Come in."

"Thank you."

One of the lasting effects of Yamatai was Lara's inability to switch off her wariness. Jonah was the quintessential gentle giant – the big brother the Englishwoman always wanted – but his scale still triggered something within her. Men, especially physically imposing men, put her on edge, and she found herself continually assessing the threat they posed.

She loved Jonah, but as he followed closely behind her into the flat, she still reached the skin-prickling conclusion that resisting him would be like trying to stand firm against an elephant's insistent trunk. She could only go where he wanted her to.

As awful as it made her feel, she found herself scanning her surroundings for anything she could turn into an improvised weapon.

That was when she noticed a rucksack right by the front door.

She turned back to her friend. "You're going somewhere?"

"Yeah, the States. I thought I'd take a bit of a break. You know, head off the grid, find some place in the middle of nowhere under wide open skies and just reassess my place in the universe."

That sounded bloody appealing actually.

As Lara drew back her hood, she nodded towards the bag, "Got room in there for me?"

Jonah laughed, and continued his explanation. "It seemed like a good time to do it now I'm between jobs."

That was her doing too. Jonah had worked with Roth for years as everything from ship's cook to personal bodyguard. Lara's mentor had given the big man stability after a troubled past. Lara, in turn, had blasted that away like she was still wielding a grenade launcher.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

Jonah frowned, "What are you apologising for?"

"It's my fault you're out of wor – "

"Stop." Jonah silenced her by bringing his palm down on her shoulder. "No more apologies. You saved my life, Lara. I'm here today because of you. The same goes for Reyes and Sam."

The archaeologist could feel a further denial rippling over her tongue.

Jonah, however, refused to let her utter it. "Come on," he smiled. "Let's sit down in the lounge and have some tea. I even baked coconut tarts."

* * *

Jonah made sure she had two tartlets down her gullet before he set aside his mug and leaned back in his armchair.

"So, you said you needed to talk."

"I didn't know who else I could turn to. I – "

Lara was slapped by the sudden realisation that the whole situation was akin to a psychologist's session. Jonah was watching her intently from his seat, while she sat hunched on the couch. That sapped all desire to express her worries. Her fingers tensed on the sofa cushions and she started looking for an exit. "I didn't know you were busy. I should let you get back to packing."

Jonah waved his hand dismissively. "What's bothering you?"

"It – It's – " She finally relented with an exhaled breath. _No escaping_. "It's Sam."

"Is she alright?"

"Yeah, she – she's fine. Good, actually. All things considered, she's actually starting to do well."

"And you're not?"

 _That was part of it, if she was being honest with herself._

She pulled a wry smile. "Heh. Is it that obvious?"

"You look tired. Tired and way too thin."

 _Sleep regularly disrupted by mammoth shag sessions will do that._

Lara sighed, "It's not that…"

"Then what?"

They could spend all afternoon beating around the bush, when she'd grown used to firing an assault rifle directly into it.

 _Just do it._

Lara clenched her eyes shut. It was easier to admit to darkness. "Jonah, I – I think I'm in love with her."

"With Sam?"

She nodded. Then she slowly looked up.

To his credit, Jonah didn't respond with anything more than a mild frown. "Oh, Little Bird…" he murmured. "Just – Just don't do anything rash."

"I slept with her."

Jonah's eyebrows shot up.

Lara grimaced, "Please don't give me that look. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I really don't need to be judged right now."

"I'm not. I'm just imagining Alex's face if he were still alive."

That wrung a chuckle from her. Jonah too.

The cook grinned, "He must be turning in his grave."

 _If he had a grave._

That realisation wilted her smile.

The explosion on the island and the survivors' rapid escape meant Alex's mother had the empty consolation of putting an empty coffin in the ground. She'd said as much to Lara. The entire Weiss family blamed the archaeologist for what happened.

Jonah hadn't realised how his companion's mood had plummeted. He continued to joke, "I wouldn't be surprised if Alex's ghost started haunting you."

"Christ," she rolled her eyes. "That's the last thing I need."

"But that would be typical Alex."

That stoked a weak smile out of her. "Yeah, it would."

"Lara." Jonah stretched out and pressed his mammoth rugby player's hand over hers. He squeezed her fingers gently. "Yamatai was full of bad energy. Spirits. It woke things in all of us. Bad things, definitely, but I'm beginning to think good things too. Especially in you."

Lara knew more about the bad things.

"You instincts are a strength. You know this," Jonah prompted. "What are they telling you to do?"

 _Keep making love with her for as long as it lasts; for as long as she'll let me._

Lara ended up muttering, "Something pointless."

"Sam doesn't share your feelings?"

"I don't think so, no."

"You don't think so? Have you asked her?"

Lara glimpsed an alternate universe where the two friends had met as adolescents in boarding school. When their teacher was busy on the blackboard, the English girl would pass a note to Sam under their desks – a scrap of paper with two scrawled check boxes topped by that all-important question, "Do you like me?"

 _If only it was that simple._

She snorted at the image, and shook her head. Sadly.

Jonah squeezed her hand again. His frown intensified. "Lara, if we took home anything from that island, it's the knowledge that life is short…" He playfully knuckled her cheek then. "Unless you've already unlocked the secret of immortality?"

She smiled back, wanly. "Not yet."

* * *

Lara arrived home to an empty flat. Sam was presumably busy with work. Nightmares aside, she'd bounced back much faster than her flatmate – reintegrating with society, and her old life, a lot more successfully than the fledgling archaeologist.

Because since she had returned home, Lara was floundering. No direction. No job. She had some temp work lined up at the British Museum because a technician was accompanying a collection on tour, but it was meaningless. Her savings were dwindling while she sat paralysed, professionally and personally.

Well, at least one of those things she intended on changing that very evening.

She made herself tea and toast, and settled herself at the kitchen table.

It ended up being a long wait.

She passed the time transferring particularly intriguing notes from the tome she'd found on Yamatai to her journal. Then, when her enthusiasm for that task dwindled, round about 11:30pm, she attempted some breathing exercises to flush the anxiety from her system.

It was while she was concentrating on the expansion and contraction of her lungs that she heard the scrape of keys at the front door.

 _Showtime, Lara Croft._

She pushed herself upright. And froze.

Laughter.

Murmuring.

She recognised Sam's voice. The filmmaker's giggles further reassured her flatmate that there was no threat from intruders. Tension coiled in Lara's muscles regardless. Frowning, she crept towards the kitchen entrance. Hidden behind a corner cabinet, she peered into the living area.

Sam was sashaying across the lounge, a six-foot bloke in tow. They both sported devilish grins. Even before the much smaller woman was tugged back into a clinch, it was obvious where things were leading.

While her hook-up groped at her and licked down her throat, Sam allowed her head to loll back. She looked blissfully drunk. The exact same way she did when Lara was over her. Or under her.

Slowly Sam's eyelids lifted.

Even at distance, her gaze latched onto Lara's. For an instant the filmmaker's smile flickered. Then she let her eyes close, and achieved nirvana once more.

Lara didn't have nightmares that evening.

She simply didn't sleep.

* * *

The next morning Lara waited until she was certain Sam's shag had departed. Once the tell-tale sounds of a man in the flat faded, the archaeologist slipped out from her room into welcome silence.

She desperately needed a hit of caffeine. Both her brain and body felt wadded in cotton wool, completely disconnected from the other. Her steps were as staggered and haphazard as her thoughts.

She jerked to a stop, though, at the sight of Sam slumped over the kitchen table. The Englishwoman was surprised by that. Traditionally her flatmate spent the morning-after curled up under her duvet, trying to offset a sleep deficit.

The filmmaker lifted her head at Lara's arrival.

The greyish tint to her skin and lips suggested she had a hangover.

 _Good._

"What?" Sam growled.

Lara didn't immediately answer. She strode past her flatmate to the counter, switched on the kettle and retrieved a mug.

While the water boiled, she turned back to her friend.

She tried to keep the bitterness from saturating her voice, but didn't quite succeed.

"Well, I see you're back to normal. How does it feel to return to the game?"

Sam's hand smacked loudly on the table. "I didn't know I had to ask permission for a fuck?"

Her companion's snappishness put Lara on the defensive. "I never say that."

"Pleeeaaase," the American girl sneered. "Be honest for once."

 _Alright then._

"You could have warned me, Sam."

"You're not my girlfriend, Lara."

That stung. Like a severe and instant allergic reaction, the archaeologist's temper blistered. She lashed out verbally. "Why the Hell are you angry with me?"

"Why are _you_ being so weird about this? I've done it a hundred fucking times."

" _A hundred fucking times_. Yeah, that sounds about right."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Low. Blow."

The filmmaker was right. Lara grimaced and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me."

"No worries." Sam's words dripped sarcasm. "Every girl loves a good slut shaming."

Lara let her arms drop to her side. She inhaled deeply, utilising the previous evening's breathing exercises after all.

The archaeologist was well aware that the sudden lull in conversation was a chance to siphon some anger from the exchange. A part of her was still itching for a fight though. She just didn't want to sound irrational. So she hauled out the argument she'd assembled over the several hours she lay glaring at her bedroom ceiling, and clamping pillows over her ears.

She exhaled, "What if that guy had surprised me last night, Sam; a stranger in our flat? You know I have a hard time with that now."

The filmmaker rolled her eyes. "Well, Christ, Lara, maybe you should see someone about that? I'm trying to get on with my life. Maybe you should too."

The Englishwoman's jaw dropped. "Where has this come from?"

Sam ignored the question. She scowled instead at her clenched fists on the table top. "Get off my case. Last night, I needed it."

Those words weighted Lara's heart like lead chain; and proceeded to sink it to the ocean floor. She could feel the mounting pressure in her chest. Wincing against the pain, she stammered out her response. "Like you needed me, Sam? I – I get it."

" _Exactly_ like that. You knew the deal, Lara. You knew what it was between us."

"I know what we said it was."

Sam shrugged, and sat silent.

Lara just stared at her. The whole situation was peculiar. Even suffering from the most merciless hangover, this wasn't her best friend at all.

"Sam, are you alright?"

The filmmaker looked like she was about to respond. But as her lips parted, she started shaking her head. "Just forget about it."

"No. I – I care about you. If something is wrong, please tell me."

"I'm fine." Sam shunted her chair back and stood. She kept her eyes on the table as she murmured, "And we're done sleeping together. I don't need it anymore."

She started towards the kitchen entrance.

"Hey. We need to talk about this." Lara's arm shot out.

The English girl had been so stunned by the announcement that she didn't even realise she'd grabbed at her companion until Sam jerked away from her.

"Get your hands off me!"

Lara noticed a deep chocolate bruise on her friend's bicep. Her eyes widened. "Did that guy last night do that to you?"

 _Fuck, was Sam seeking out batterings from strangers now?_

"What? No. God."

Lara swallowed. "Did I do that to you?"

They'd last shagged three nights previously, and it had been one of their rougher encounters. Lara wasn't sure about Sam, but in her own case, it could take as much as two days for bruising to appear.

Rage drained from Sam's features, leaving her expression blank. She self-consciously covered the blemish with trembling fingers.

"No. I – I knocked against the wall."

"Let me look at it." Post-Yamatai, Lara certainly had enough experience with injuries. She was reaching for her friend when Sam swatted away her hand.

"No!" The American girl snarled at her companion like a furious territorial cat.

Exasperated – emotionally on edge – Lara exploded, "What the Hell is up with you at the moment? You're running hot and cold with me. Fuck!"

"Just give me space, Lara, alright?"

As if to emphasise her point, Sam hopped back a good four feet. Still clutching her bicep, she added, "You said you want to help me?"

"Of course."

 _All her damn promises._

"So just butt out. There's some stuff I need to deal with alone. You of all people should understand that."

Lara scowled, "Sam, I…"

"I said leave me alone. Please."

"But – "

She didn't get to finish. Sam spat, "I can look after myself. I don't need you always rushing in to save the day like you're some knight in shining armour…" She added, "…or shredded cargo pants."

It was a battle for the archaeologist to squeeze out a response. Her words sounded robotic. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

"Fine."

"Good."

Sam backed towards the entrance. Her final words to her friend were, "I'm not useless, Lara."

Then she fled down the passage.

Lara was left alone in the kitchen. With the kettle long since boiled, the only sound was the Englishwoman's shuddered breathing.

It had happened. Just as she feared. They had ruined everything – everything that they had been, and everything that she had fleetingly, and foolishly, hoped they could be.

It was her turn to smack the table.

"Sod it!"

* * *

Sometime later, when she had managed to wrangle her emotions back into their nice neat British paddock, she dragged herself back to her room.

The route took her past Sam's closed door.

The English girl paused.

She had spent so much time building up to her confession.

So much wasted time.

Unless…

It was idiotic, but she didn't care.

She pressed her cheek against the painted pine, and ran her fingertips over the smooth surface.

"Sam," she whispered. "I care for you more than anyone else in the world. I'm here for you. Whatever you need from me… or don't. I – I love you…"

* * *

Sam sat upright in bed, her back against the headrest and her knees drawn up to her chest. She was perfectly still except for the tears shimmering in her eyes. Occasionally, one escaped. Then it would race down her cheek and make a suicide plunge into the abyss.

The filmmaker made no move to rub at the wetness. She stared across the room at her reflection in the dressing table mirror.

* * *

 _Her daughter continued to fight her – to resist the great honour it was to be chosen._

 _It grated Her to be defied in such a manner, but She was prepared to endure the offense. It was a cost She would pay. There would be time for punishment later. Right now, She had one objective._

 _Through Her daughter's eyes, She watched her adversary._

 _She was too weak to kill the girl, but working with care and cunning – seizing control of Her daughter at key moments; planting irresistible suggestions in Her vessel's mind – She could still hurt the one who had ruined everything._

 _So many barbarians had arrived on Her island over the centuries. Yet in the end, the savage who had proved to be the greatest threat was just a girl. Small. Utterly unassuming in appearance. Yet, caked in dirt and blood, she brought with her destruction._

 _She was Death's handmaiden._

 _Young, beautiful and deadly._

 _A Priestess of the Moon as Her own chosen bore the title Priestess of the Sun._

 _Her daughter loved the barbarian girl. Deeply. Yet she kept that aberrant longing as much a secret as her Queen's advance._

 _It was no matter._

 _The longer the covert battle between Queen and Priestess waged, the stronger She grew. She fed off the pain of Her daughter, as well as the confused barbarian girl. Every day She was gaining ground, while Her daughter weakened, and retreated into the deepest corners of her mind._

 _The rising sun conquering night – as it should be._

 _It was undeniably perilous. Pushed far enough into desperation, Her daughter could behave as that wretched girl Hoshi had centuries previously. Then everything would be undone once more._

 _Still, She could not resist the taste of irony, silken on Her tongue._

 _Whatever gouges She was exposed to, She would inflict them tenfold on her foe._

 _Come what may, She would destroy Lara Croft._

 _She would shatter and incinerate the girl's heart, just as the girl had done to Her._


End file.
